


Drawing A Blank

by gracethescribbler



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, CT-7567 | Rex is a Good Bro, Clone Trooper Inhibitor Chips (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Reconditioning (Star Wars), Cody and Rex are the best bros, Drawing, Dreams, Existential Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Loss of Identity, Memory Loss, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, because why not, everyone is sad, i'm so sorry that the title is a pun i can't make titles, okay yes there's gonna be codywan lol who was i kidding, they'll be fine i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracethescribbler/pseuds/gracethescribbler
Summary: “General Kenobi,” Sketch said politely, saluting.“At ease,” the General answered, sounding very nearly amused. “Your name is Sketch, correct?”“Yes, sir.” Sketch nodded, quickly, tried to smile and then felt a bit foolish. “Nice to meet you, sir.”General Kenobi’s expression twisted a bit, for a moment, his little smile faltering, and then he nodded politely. “Good to meet you as well.”Cody gets reconditioned and his family just wants him back. I might fix Order 66 along the way, who knows.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody & Waxer, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 53
Kudos: 245





	1. Sketch

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to the fic. :)
> 
> I have no idea how long this is going to be or if I'm going to finish it, but I'm hoping to get Cody back to his regular self and to maybe throw some Codywan in here. We'll see what the characters do. I have a few chapters of this finished already, so for a little while updates may be consistent.
> 
> Come chat with me on Tumblr!

Sketch was a good soldier. He might have been a shiny, but he knew all the regs back to front, could fight as well as (better than, somehow) all his brothers, wore his armor proudly for the Republic. He was quiet, focused, never disobeyed his CO’s. His fellow shinies, newly assigned to General Fisto, were jittery, loud, liked to gossip and couldn't seem to get enough of staring after the General, whispering about how cool he was. Sketch, though, didn't like to draw attention to himself, and since he didn’t entirely see what all the fuss was about, he didn’t join in those conversations. Not that General Fisto wasn’t impressive, because he was, but Sketch thought they shouldn’t expect anything else from a Jedi. They were  _ legends, _ of course General Fisto could kick ass.

Sketch had a bunk in the corner of the barracks by his two best friends, Mano and Keel. Mano was too loud and already talking about buzzing his hair really short, about all the cool things he could paint on his armor so the veterans would stop calling him “shiny.” Keel just smiled to himself at Mano’s antics and told Sketch that he wanted to paint his armor like Commander Fil’s.

“What’re you gonna paint, Sketch? Bet you’ve been waiting for the chance, right?” Mano asked, cheerfully, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning over the bunk so he could look down at Sketch.

“I don’t know, I guess,” he answered, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I want to paint it right away.”

Keel chuckled. “Why?”

“Wanna paint the right thing, probably.” Sketch wasn’t sure how he felt about the paint. He knew they were here to replace lost members of Fisto’s battalion (the 406th, his battalion now, the real deal, not just training), so it was better to wait a while to paint their armor anyway - but he wasn’t sure about the color. Dark red, nearly maroon. Something about it felt off, to him, not right. Colors. Sketch knew they were important.

But he also knew that just  _ feeling  _ like something wasn’t right was no measure of things. He trusted his training and the regs - his instincts were unreliable, at times.

“Well, I don’t care about the ‘right thing,’” Mano grumbled, “I just can’t wait to paint it and get out on a campaign.”

“I’m not sure you really want that.” Sketch shuffled around his bunk to pull out one of his very few belongings, a gift from Keel (one a trainer had said it was alright to have), and set it on his lap: his notebook, bent and wrinkled and slightly waterlogged from the time Mano knocked over a cup of water all over the pages. Sketch had one pencil, also a gift from Keel, and he opened his notebook with a crackle of paper and starting absently drawing.

“Don’t be like that, Sketch,” Keel said, smiling. “Sure, I know it’s not great, but it’ll be good to really help the Republic.”

Sketch nodded. “I know.”

“You’re not _ scared, _ are you?” Mano frowned at him, and Sketch rubbed the bridge of his nose with a knuckle, uncomfortable about the question. “Come on, Sketch, you’re the best out of all of our batch, and you know it.  _ You’re _ not gonna get shot.”

“No, I’m not scared.”

Keel grinned at him and pointed. “Well, you’re doing that thing again.”

Sketch glanced down at his notebook and grimaced; he’d been drawing a series of short lines, sometimes drawing hatched lines over them, like tally marks. He mostly did it when he was anxious, which was frustrating. He needed to kick the habit. “I’m not scared,” he insisted. “Just- don’t wanna lose any of you shitheads, that’s all.”

“Shut up,” Mano groaned, flopping back on his bunk above Sketch’s head. “We’re gonna be fine, dumbass.”

“I know.” Sketch focused on his notebook and started sketching out the rough shape of a Republic cruiser. He knew it. But he also felt like maybe Mano was too optimistic, like all of them were.

But it didn’t matter. He was a good soldier, and he'd fight just like everyone else when the time came. He just wished he didn't keep feeling like it was going to be  _ bad. _

He sighed to himself and focused harder on his drawing.

Their first campaign was to Felucia, which nobody seemed happy about.

“Gonna be a waste of time,” the veterans were saying.

Sketch's batchmates insisted that they  _ might  _ really win for good this time (the veterans have been telling them that they'd been trying to take Felucia for years, but they could never keep it), and Sketch thought that seemed, again, optimistic - but hells, they had to win sometime, right? Maybe it would be this time.

He didn't say so. Commander Fil and the others were laughing at his brothers for saying that.

“Don't worry, shiny,” one of them told Mano, clapping him on the shoulder. “It rubs right off.”

Mano glared at him and shrugged the hand off his shoulder, which just made everyone else laugh more. Sketch couldn't help grinning at Mano.

“Bet we won't be shiny after this campaign,” Keel noted quietly to Sketch. “I heard it's a jungle planet.”

“Well, after this campaign I'm painting my armor,” Mano griped, marching over to them, his ears flushed red with embarrassment. “I don't need any more of that shit.”

“Get over it, Mano, they're doing that to everyone,” Keel pointed out, and Sketch grinned and nodded.

“Yeah,  _ vod, _ it's just worse for you because you're being a baby about it.”

_ “Ne'johaa,” _ Mano grumbled. “I'm not being a baby, Sketch, it's just annoying.”

“You're totally overreacting,” Keel said, gleefully. “Bet they keep calling you a shiny after this campaign just to piss you off.”

“If they do that, I'm gonna punch someone,” Mano muttered.

“Hey, stop gabbing and get your asses in gear!”

The three of them jolted and whipped around to look at the speaker, and Sketch swore internally because it was the  _ Commander. _ Shit.

“Sorry, sir,” Keel stammered, saluting, and Commander Fil just raised an eyebrow before marching off.

“Oh my little gods,” Mano said, reaching for his blaster rifle. “We're doomed.”

Sketch just smiled, grabbed the rest of his kit, and joined their company in marching for the transports.

Sketch had never seen anything like Felucia before, so that he thought if it weren’t for his training, he would have been too disoriented to fall in properly with his unit. As it was, he looked around quickly, assessing, and stayed in line with Mano and Keel and a trooper named Cliff. Some of this, he’d have to try to remember to draw later - if he had time, anyway. Not that that was really important right now. Keel elbowed him, though, and gestured to their left. “Look at this stuff,” he said, softly, sounding surprised. “This place is cool.”

“Until you get ambushed and blown to pieces,” another trooper muttered - Sketch assumed he knew what he was talking about, he had scuffed paint on his armor and sounded like he was speaking from experience.

“Cheerful,” Mano hissed, and Sketch smiled slightly.

“What the hells else do you expect?”

“I don’t know. Shut up.”

Sketch rolled his eyes and looked around everything again, frowning a little. He didn’t know what the kriff he was looking for, but he didn’t like this. He felt like things were watching him from in the jungle and he couldn’t help but think about what the veterans had been saying about the planet, how they couldn’t take it and how they might get ambushed. He gripped his blaster rifle a little tighter and focused on being quiet, and watching the Commander for signals. Even Mano seemed like he was taking this seriously, now.

One of the other shinies jumped when someone else blundered through a small, fan-like bush, and half the veterans shot both of them looks and signals to  _ be quiet. _ Sketch didn’t think being quiet was going to do much to hide them, they didn’t exactly  _ blend in _ here, after all, but he was careful anyway.

Suddenly, everyone around him came to a halt, and Sketch stopped too, saw that the Commander had held up a fist in a tense signal to  _ hold. _ Everyone was dead still except for blasters fixed on the jungle around them; Sketch held his rifle at the ready and watched the Commander.

“Everyone  _ down!” _ Commander Fil shouted, and Sketch dove to the ground just as a whining shriek cut the air and the jungle around them lit up yellow and orange, a roar of concussive sound making Sketch’s ears ring. He curled his hands tight around his blaster and struggled to get to his feet, heard screaming and smelled wet earth, something metallic and heavy. There was mud and mould in his mouth.

“Come on, move it, troopers!”

Sketch stumbled upright and ran towards Fil's voice, feeling something cold and icy creeping up his spine. He must be panicking. He'd heard sometimes new soldiers did this, they warned him - _ you might be tempted to run. You cannot. _

But he didn't think the cold felt like panic.

Commander Fil was firing into the trees, and Sketch didn’t see anything, how did Fil even know where to aim- and then another shriek cut the air and Sketch whipped around, dropped into a low crouch and held his position while a rocket impacted several dozen yards away. He closed his eyes, but the fire still burned afterimages on his vision and he couldn’t hear.

Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet, and he focused enough to see one of the veterans, who shoved him forward and said, “Let’s go, a slow soldier is a dead soldier.”

It was a familiar phrase, from the trainers, he thought. Sketch fell into step beside the other trooper, ran with him after Commander Fil and the rest of his unit. He didn’t know where Mano and Keel were, much less any of his other batchmates - suddenly he wished they’d painted their armor already.

They ran with the sounds of explosions and blasterfire around them until the undergrowth thinned into a wide, cleared space of colorful grasses. General Fisto was standing with more of their men, his lightsaber ignited and glowing vivid green, and he nodded to Commander Fil with a small, confident smile.

“Commander,” he said, his rich, deep voice almost amused. Sketch didn’t understand how he could be so calm. “It seems some of our intel was mistaken.”

“You mean the report that said the Seppies didn’t have heavy artillery in place yet?” Commander Fil said, flatly, and General Fisto laughed.  _ Laughed. _

“Yes. That.”

“Units, form up!” Fil ordered, sharp, and Sketch drew back to stand shoulder to shoulder with a shiny  _ vod  _ who was swearing under his breath. Sketch planted his feet in the soft earth and lifted his blaster rifle to his shoulder, watching Fil out of the corner of his eye for signals.

The jungle around them was so quiet. Like it was dead, hushed, waiting. Sketch imagined he saw faces, blaster barrels, metallic flashes in the shadows.

Something said  _ wait. Be careful. _

The droids burst out of the trees with almost no noise, rushing at Sketch and his vode in sharp, abnormally fast movements, and the Commander shouted, “Commandos!” just before the first line reached them.

Sketch hadn’t even realized he’d begun to fire, it was just automatic, like he’d been trained, but the commando droids were in among them before they could really react and suddenly Sketch was face to metal face with a droid. He just had time to register glowing eyes and an unnatural tilt of the head before an unexpected kick knocked him off balance and scored lines across his armor, and he stumbled back and, without thinking, caught himself by grabbing the droid’s blaster, pushing the weapon away from him in the same movement so the shot the droid fired only hit dirt. Sketch brought his own blaster up and shot the commando through the head.

Something slammed into his wrist, hard-edged between the joints of his gauntlet and bracer, and he dropped his blaster with a hiss of pain and whirled automatically as a droid blaster was pushed into his side. He grabbed the blaster, jerked it sideways so the shot just carved a furrow in his armor, and, unthinking, grabbed the commando's head and yanked until something gave way and it came off, sparking, in his hand. He threw it at the next droid, dove to the ground to get his blaster, and shot two more in the head. Only headshots worked with commandos.

General Fisto had apparently finished off most of the droids, and as Sketch took aim at the last few, the General himself made short work of them with a flourish of his lightsaber. One of the veterans, armor painted with neat, triangular designs, came over and clapped Sketch on the shoulder. “Not half bad, kid,” he said, and Sketch thought he could hear him smiling. “Most  _ vode  _ wouldn't react so well to their first fight with commandos.” Sketch realized that the ground around them was littered with the bodies of his vode, mostly the ones in unpainted armor. He swallowed, shook his head. “You're alright,  _ vod'ika,” _ the veteran said, steering him after the Commander and the General. Sketch wanted to tell him to stop, what if Mano and Keel were dead there and he didn't even know it? “You lived to fight another day, that's what matters.”

Sketch shivered a little and clutched his rifle tighter. It didn't seem fair. Most of his instincts weren’t just from training, he knew it - if he was like the rest of the shinies, maybe he'd be dead, too. But sometimes when he was fighting, muscle memory would take over. From before.

They told him that would be a side effect. Because he had been reconditioned. The muscle memory of old skills, old habits. An advantage, one of the only holdovers from before they wiped his mind clean.

He figured that before he was reconditioned, he was a good fighter. And, apparently, used to losing his  _ vode  _ in battles like this, because as he resumed marching with his unit, he didn't feel much of anything but cold.

That night, after the battalion made camp, Mano and Keel cornered Sketch by his bedroll, startling him away from the drawings he was making. He snapped his rough sketchbook closed, stuffed it and his pencil under his thigh where he sat crosslegged.

_ “Vod,” _ Mano said, excitedly, scuffing his foot on the ground before unceremoniously plopping down to sit across from him. “Keel said you killed some commando droids with your  _ bare hands _ earlier.”

Keel shrugged apologetically at Sketch and sat down also, propping his elbows on his knees.

“I guess,” Sketch said, awkwardly. “One of them. Weren’t you there with the unit?”

Mano scratched his head, a bit fidgety. “No,” he admitted. “I got separated, I guess.”

“He  _ means  _ he wandered around by himself shooting at nothing for at least half a standard hour,” Keel said, his lips twitching in a barely-contained, gleeful smile.

“Yeah, sure, and so I missed you  _ killing commandos with your bare hands,” _ Mano said, hastily. “How the hells, Sketch, that’s crazy.”

“I had to because I  _ dropped  _ my  _ blaster,” _ Sketch grumbled, shaking his head. “It wasn’t very cool, Mano.”

“It kind of was.” Keel shrugged again.

Sketch shook his head. He didn’t like the attention, at all, although it was just his friends. What if everyone started asking about it, or what if it really  _ was  _ impressive and he wasn’t supposed to be able to fight this well, would someone find out he was defective? He shouldn’t worry about it, probably, it wasn’t as if he’d done anything that interesting. Still, when he started picking at the edges of his armor, Keel and Mano exchanged looks and seemed to decide to drop that particular issue.

“It’s- weird,” Keel said, thoughtfully, a bit flat. “You can’t tell who’s dead or not, if we don’t have paint on our armor. Hells, I wasn’t even sure if both of  _ you  _ weren’t dead.”

“Yeah,” Mano agreed. He kicked his legs out in front of him, trying for nonchalance. Sketch thought he could tell Mano was rattled, though. “I don’t know, it was kinda creepy. Everybody just… laying around and looking the same. You think we’re just gonna leave the bodies?”

“What would we do with them?” Sketch asked, tiredly, shrugging. “I guess we have to.”

“That’s what the remembrance thing is for, right? Like some of the trainers said?” Keel pointed out. “Listing the names. Because we can’t bring anybody back?”

“I guess,” Mano said.

Sketch took his sketchbook back out, rifled through the pages, quietly. There was a Mandalorian tradition that some of the clone trainers told them about, for honoring the dead: you’d recite the names of the people you lost, every day, and there was a ritual line that went with it about how the remembering made them eternal. Sketch was pretty sure there was something ironic about his situation and that line, if he thought about it, but really it didn’t matter. He didn’t even know which of his batchmates were dead now, how was he supposed to list them? They’d had one battle today, how many had they lost?

He wanted to know the number, and the names.

He started to sketch out a face, careful, a copy of his own, everything about it regulation. Short hair, like Mano said he wanted.

He felt like his first battle should be harder, and he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of battles he’d fought in before if he didn’t feel anything but tired today.

Not that it mattered, he knew he wasn’t supposed to care about  _ before. _ The scientists told him so, when they explained to him.  _ You are not like the others, _ they told him,  _ you were defective and have been given a second chance - you will have some ingrained skills your batchmates do not, and that’s why you don’t remember being younger like the others do. Don’t worry, your life before won’t matter to anyone. This is a blank slate and a new start, CT-9601. _

He shouldn’t go messing things up with questions, it was just- weird. Was he assigned to a battalion? Did he have actual batchmates that remembered him and then he was just gone? Did anybody really notice he was gone or did he do something so awful that nobody minded? All the things that the regs said could warrant reconditioning were like treason, or deserting, or mutiny - would he really have done something like that? What if he did again?

He realized he was drawing tally marks again and curled his fingers tight around his pencil.

“We’ll get used to this,” Keel said, looking at his sketchbook and then up at him with a crooked smile, misunderstanding his nervousness. “Hells, it won’t be too bad, did you see the General? He’s  _ badass.” _

“Yeah,” Sketch agreed, snorting. “I think he’s a little crazy. And the Commander.”

“Why?” Mano asked.

“Seemed like they were having  _ fun.” _ Sketch shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“I mean, scrapping droids isn’t the worst way to spend a day.”

“You didn’t scrap hardly any, Mano.” Keel rolled his eyes, and punched Mano good-naturedly in the shoulder.

Their  _ vod  _ scowled and shoved Keel a little away. “Kriff off, that woulda been better than wandering around by myself doing nothing. And I  _ did  _ fight most of the time.”

Sketch put his book away again and focused on helping Keel argue that not only did that not count as properly participating, but that Mano had definitely gotten himself lost on purpose because he was afraid. Not that either of them believed it, Mano was probably actually not afraid  _ enough, _ but it was a good distraction from a new memory of the whole ground covered with dead  _ vode  _ in blank armor.

The veteran with the geometric painted armor brought Sketch paint. Three days into the campaign and all the shinies had been finding ways and means to get hold of General Fisto’s colors, the dark red so they could cover up scratches in their armor, and so that when they were marching with all their  _ vode, _ they’d know who they were with. So they’d recognize the dead before they had to leave them. Sketch hadn’t really looked, though; there was still something that felt  _ off  _ to him, about the process, something about sitting down with that red paint and marking up his armor…

He didn’t know.

The veteran brought some to him, though, rapped on a post of the tent Sketch shared with Mano and put a little, rusted can of the color into his hands. “Here, kid. I noticed you weren’t painting your armor yet.”

“No, I- it didn’t feel right yet, sir.”

“You should. It’s harder to fight when you’re not part of the battalion yet,  _ vod’ika.” _ The soldier had a funny smile on his face. Knowing. Sketch wished he didn’t feel like the only person who never knew what he should do. “What should I call you?”

“I’m Sketch.” He twisted his hands tight around the can of paint, tried to picture what he’d do with his armor.  _ Red. _ Funny, he’d never liked that color.

“I’m Kade. Trust me, Sketch, nobody’ll mind if you paint it a little.” Kade smiled, and Sketch forced a smile too.

“I know.”

“Well. Welcome to the 406th,  _ vod'ika,” _ he said, kindly, and strode off.

And Sketch sat down in the tent and looked at the paint, and then down at the pale white of his kit, still mostly new and unmarked. There were the few blaster burns, some scratches, but still.  _ Shiny and new. _ Maybe Kade was right, it would be better to move ahead and paint it, like everyone else. Hells, Mano was already talking about shaving his hair short as soon as he could get a good enough razor.

But that all made  _ sense  _ for his batchmates; they’d all had plans for how they would paint their armor for as long as Sketch had known them, and Mano wanted all kinds of tattoos and things, but Sketch had no idea what he wanted. And he didn’t think he could paint his armor until he knew. It felt all wrong, so he put the paint down next to his pack and his sketchbook, and absentmindedly touched the scar that curled around his left eye. He didn’t know where he’d gotten it, it was probably from before - he’d told his  _ vode  _ it was from a training mistake.

He didn’t know who he was supposed to be, so he couldn’t paint his armor. He had somebody else’s scar as part of his face and it felt like he wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to put the 406th’s color on his kit, so…

Maybe he could get over this if he tried to find out who he was. Not too much, not enough to get him in trouble - just enough to rest easy about it. Then he could just... move on. Because he liked it here, he liked Mano and Keel and the veterans and Kade, and he liked General Fisto, and he liked being part of the battalion. He thought he’d just like it better if he didn’t feel like a big lie. So he’d keep the shiny armor until he was sure he should paint it.

Anyway, it couldn’t hurt anything to know just a  _ little  _ about who he was before. Then he wouldn’t risk making the same mistake twice, which was the point of reconditioning, right? This was just… precautionary. Nobody would even have to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for more angst? Glad y'all like this fic!

The battalion was in shock. Nobody seemed able to accept the event that loomed large over everything they did, now - Commander Cody’s seeming betrayal and subsequent arrest and reconditioning. Almost all of them had seen it, and if they hadn’t, they’d heard about it immediately afterwards from vode whose voices were unaccountably shaky.

“He tried to  _ kill the General,” _ Waxer had breathed over comms, almost panicked, to one of the pilots. Obi-Wan still didn’t understand how it could have happened - everything had spiraled devastatingly out of control since then and there had been no keeping the incident internal, not with one of the GAR’s finest, a Marshall Commander no less, turning homicidal. A GAR commander of one of the other battalions on the campaign had taken custody of Cody before they even got back to the transports, and by the time Obi-Wan had gotten the battalion settled back in their barracks and had told Waxer to  _ keep them calm, we could still fix this, _ Cody was on his way back to Kamino. For examination, the GAR said - and Obi-Wan decided to go see him.

During the hyperspace flight, Obi-Wan received a message, saying that trooper designation CC-2224 was being removed from service; General Kenobi was to either select a new Commander from his battalion or else they would assign him a new CC. Obi-Wan had hardly known how to react, but showed the message to Waxer. Waxer had instantly buried his face in his hands and sat frozen for a moment.

“We should turn around,” he’d said, his voice shaking like delicate glass. “They reconditioned him, sir, we’re not going to be able to get him back.”

Obi-Wan insisted on going to Kamino anyway, and he questioned Nala Se, the scientists, and Shaak Ti. Shaak Ti had no answers for him and the scientists were evasive and would not allow him through any of the facility, much less into the detaining cells and “correctional” areas. He had half-formed a plan to feign leaving and then circle back to search, but before he could do so, the Kaminoans had provided them with a  _ helpful  _ escort out, some twenty serious-eyed troopers.

Obi-Wan couldn’t start a conflict with the Kaminoans, of course, not even for this. So when Waxer shot him a questioning look, Obi-Wan shook his head minutely. There would be other ways to find Cody. He could send Shaak Ti a private request for help, surely she could find the information he needed. If that failed, there would be records somewhere. But he  _ would  _ find Cody again.

He had to, if for no other reason than he had to understand what had happened. He thought he knew that Cody would never hurt him, not without a reason, and now his Commander, his  _ friend, _ was gone, and for all Obi-Wan knew something was very wrong. 

Now, back on Coruscant temporarily, Obi-Wan made a decision to promote Waxer rather than accept a replacement Commander from the GAR - Waxer had far more experience than any new CC they would try to assign to the 212th, and in any case, he rather hoped the promotion would be temporary.

Obi had heard some of the newest members of the battalion already saying Cody’s name in their lists of remembrances. Somehow, he hadn’t realized that they would treat a reconditioning like a death, but it made sense. That didn’t make it easier. Waxer and Boil and the other members of Ghost Company weren’t, yet, but when Obi-Wan told Waxer he intended to try to find Cody again, it was clear that no one believed they would be able to.

Obi-Wan understood that, however. He remembered that once, Cody had told him that when he was a cadet, one of his batchmates had been taken away for reconditioning.

“He was too undisciplined for the longnecks’ taste, I guess,” Cody had explained, his voice just a little too tight. “We were four or five, I think, and were supposed to be starting to take things more seriously, but all he wanted to do was keep kriffing with the trainers. I didn’t know better, I tried to run after them to get him back.” Cody had smiled one of those sardonic, small sorts of smiles that Obi-Wan knew meant he was tired, hiding some emotion. “Funny enough, it didn’t really work.”

Obi-Wan could imagine it, too: Cody, small and unscarred and frightened, running down one of those pale halls in the Kaminoan facilities and trying to catch up to some trainer or doctor with no success, and how scared he must have been. Obi-Wan thought this had to be why so many of his men seemed to have given up on the idea of getting Cody back: reconditioning was never something they fought, nor was it something anyone else fought  _ for  _ them. Obi-Wan knew (had made sure) that none of his men had been punished like this before, and although he’d failed to prevent it this time, he had to try to correct it. He couldn’t let any of his men down, much less his Commander.

Obi-Wan had lunch in the Temple commissary with Shaak Ti, the day after she returned from Kamino. She seemed to already know what he was going to ask her, and as she sat down there was something of a wary look on her fine-boned face.

“Hello, Master Obi-Wan,” she said, setting her plate of food down on the table and folding her hands in front of her. “You had something you wanted to discuss with me?”

“I did.” Obi-Wan picked at his own salad and shrugged a little, tired. “I know when I was on Kamino we weren't able to do much about my Commander, but I was hoping you could help me access their records of troopers that have been reassigned.”

“I'm afraid I already looked, Obi-Wan,” Shaak Ti said, with a knowing, regretful smile. She had expected him to ask her for help. “Commander Cody's numeric designation isn't listed with the reassignments. I'm sure they gave him a new one, but I don't know what it is, and they won't tell me. They know I do not approve of the reconditioning, so they don't allow me much input in the matter.”

Obi-Wan thought, rather ungenerously, that if she really wanted to have input, she could certainly expect them to listen to her anyway - but of course now was hardly the time to have an ideological debate. “Wouldn't they have records of the reconditioned troopers?” he asked, setting down his fork and folding his own hands to mirror Shaak Ti's posture.

“I am sure they do,” she said, gently. “However, I doubt I would have access to such files.”

“Could you look for me, at least?” Obi-Wan asked, exhaling a light sigh and releasing his fear with it.

Shaak nodded, gracefully. “I will try, Obi-Wan. But don't expect too much.”

“Of course not. I only hope you will keep me updated on what you find - or perhaps do not.”

Her smile was entirely too sympathetic. “Of course.”

They did not discuss much beyond pleasantries, for the rest of lunch, and Obi-Wan let the meaningless discussion distract him. For the time being. He had no doubt that it was possible to find Cody, of course, and yet it was hard not to think about the  _ what if _ \- what if he couldn’t? There was no use dwelling on a future that did not yet exist, foolish fears that had little root in the here and now.

This did, however, remind him very sharply that Cody was one of the very few people who he felt comfortable confiding in. It was hard to find someone who understood him, who Obi-Wan knew wouldn’t think lesser of him for being honest about his weaker moments. Not having that was… difficult. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Waxer, or the other men, or Anakin - but they relied on him. He would have liked to be able to tell Cody how he was feeling just now, how he  _ was  _ a little unsure of his ability to get him back, or even to conduct the search without neglecting other responsibilities - because there was that, too, there was so much else required of him, but he couldn’t simply  _ not  _ look for Cody.

Not when his men seemed lost without the certainty of their Commander, not when he had no idea why Cody had tried to kill him (which he supposed he should be more upset about), not when he himself missed a consistent, steady presence at his shoulder. He didn’t entirely know how he would command his battalion without Cody’s assistance, if he was honest - of course he would manage, but he was… uncertain.

But he expected he would find Cody, for there were always records, and Cody had a very distinct appearance, too, if all else failed. He should only have to manage on his own for a little while. Depending on Shaak Ti’s success at finding the reconditioning records.

It turned out, as Obi-Wan had suspected and Shaak Ti had warned, that she could not access those particular files - she told him that she hadn’t even been able to discover if there  _ were  _ any. Obi-Wan was sure there were, as the Kaminoan cloners were scientists and, additionally, dealt with the clones as if they were products - practically, they couldn’t afford to not keep thorough records. But unfortunately, it made sense that they wouldn’t be interested in the Jedi being able to find information on it easily. At least that meant Shaak Ti had made their position very clear.

In any case, Obi-Wan would have to find another way to get at that information. He couldn’t just go looking throughout the GAR for Cody, that would be near impossible. Looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack - or perhaps a whole field of haystacks.

He couldn’t exactly ask Shaak Ti to risk her position of influence on Kamino by suggesting she sneak around, and anyway, Shaak Ti had never been particularly, ah, rebellious.

Perhaps, though, Obi himself could take the time to go have a look. He suspected that Waxer wouldn’t mind looking after the battalion if Obi-Wan took a few days to snoop around Kamino. As long as they didn’t have any assignments within the next week, maybe he would pay the Kaminoans a return visit.

So, naturally, he suggested the idea to Waxer, between inventory checks.

“I spoke to Master Shaak Ti about trying to find traces of Cody in the Kaminoans’ records, but she wasn’t able to find anything - however, I still think the records exist. They’re just not readily available to anyone besides the Kaminoans.”

Waxer gave him a thoughtful look, then said, “You want to access them, don’t you? I could see about putting some of the technicians on it.”

“I doubt they could get into those systems, although I certainly wouldn’t object to them trying,” Obi-Wan said, with a small smile. “No, I thought it might be simpler if I were to pay a short visit to Kamino and attempt to discuss matters with them again.”

“Sir, I know you’re skilled at negotiations,” Waxer said, almost  _ sardonically, _ “but I sincerely doubt they will change their minds.”

“I believe we both know that isn’t what I had in mind.” Obi-Wan tucked his arms behind his back and raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure I could access the information, if I was careful - I merely mention this to you because I would need to ask you to cover for me while I was gone.”

“By cover for you, I assume you also mean you’d prefer I didn’t tell anyone what you were doing?”

“Yes, you’ve caught on quite nicely,” Obi-Wan said.

“Sir…” Waxer hesitated, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t need to tell you that this isn’t your jurisdiction - they had every right to arrest the Commander, technically, so you really don’t have an excuse, if anyone catches you.” He stopped, but before Obi-Wan could answer, he rushed on, “I just don’t know if you should risk this because I don’t think we can get him back. Sir.”

Obi-Wan smiled a little, although he was very serious when he answered. “Waxer, I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t be able to. I am perfectly capable of getting those records, and I rather think I can do it without being caught. And, frankly, I certainly couldn’t excuse myself for not trying, so in this instance I’m willing to risk a small incident with Kamino.”

Waxer shook his head again, slightly, and when he looked at Obi-Wan there was something very tired in his eyes. “Sir, they- Even if you find him, sir, they’ll have wiped him clean and started over. It wouldn’t really  _ be  _ the Commander. Maybe- I don’t like it either, but maybe we should just… try to move on.” Waxer sounded heavy, so Obi-Wan stopped walking and set a hand on his shoulder.

“Waxer, I don’t know if it’s possible to get him back like he was. But I do intend to try - I would at least like to know where he is. So unless you’re unwilling to look after things while I’m gone, I’ll go to Kamino as soon as I’m sure we’ll have a few days between campaigns.” Obi-Wan understood that his men felt somewhat as if things like reconditioning were inevitable, unable to be fixed, but then again he didn’t think anyone had ever  _ tried  _ to reverse it before. He wasn’t going to assume it was hopeless.

Waxer sighed, nodding at him. “Of course I’ll cover for you, sir - I’d rather be wrong about this.”

“I’d rather you were too,” Obi-Wan said, with a small smile. “Thank you, Waxer.”

“Any time.” Waxer nodded, politely, and Obi-Wan squeezed his shoulder slightly as they resumed walking.

It was strange how Waxer’s smile wasn’t the same as Cody’s. They should have looked the same, but they didn’t.

Before Obi-Wan could even begin to make plans, the Council informed him that they were sending him to assist Kit Fisto with his campaign on Felucia - apparently the campaign was going (comparatively) well, but Kit wasn’t making much headway, so the 212th was needed to put a little extra pressure on the Separatist forces. Obi-Wan did not allow his annoyance to get the better of him, because there would be time yet to find Cody after this campaign. He wouldn’t have preferred this setback, but it would be alright all the same. He had to prioritize the war still, of course, because too much depended on him.

When they left, though, the whole battalion kept incidentally reminding him of the fact that Cody was gone. They all seemed quieter than usual, and Boil and Waxer kept watching him - Obi-Wan suspected that most of the battalion, or at least most of those who were friends with Cody, now knew about Obi-Wan’s plan to go to Kamino.

“I’m sure this won’t take long, sir,” Boil told him, helpfully.

Obi-Wan smiled mildly at him, adjusting his bracers. “I certainly hope you’re right.”

Waxer nodded at him, clearly well aware of what he was thinking about, and put his helmet on. For a moment, Obi-Wan watched Boil visibly struggle to decide whether or not to say something, and then the trooper pursed his lips tightly and also donned his helmet, crossing his arms.

Obi-Wan decided not to ask him what he was thinking - he thought that Boil, like Waxer, probably thought he was expecting too much, in trying to find Cody. Most of the battalion likely agreed with Waxer, in fact. But what they thought, in this instance, would not affect Obi-Wan’s plan.

The cruiser came out of hyperspace in atmo above Felucia, flanked neatly by two other Republic cruisers - the Republic currently controlled much of the space within the system, but Felucia itself was still contested. As per usual. There had begun to be common sayings among veteran soldiers that Felucia was the unwinnable system, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help some level of wry agreement. Felucia had bounced between Republic and Separatist control several times now and it was never any easier to win back. Elek and some of the others had been terrorizing the shinies, as they often did, telling them how Felucia was a hellhole and they’d be lucky if they made any headway.

Obi-Wan thought Cody would find it amusing.

It was so strange stepping into a transport and not feeling the steely determination and focus that was Cody, not being able to turn and check in with his Commander. It was hard not to feel a pang of premature loss, then, at even the idea of Cody being  _ gon _ e, and Obi-Wan squared his shoulders and took a long, slow breath in. He had a campaign to focus on.

Their transports set down in a barely-cleared area in the middle of the jungle, near what was apparently the 406th’s camp - predictably, Kit was waiting for them with his Commander, Fil (if Obi-Wan remembered his name correctly). Kit saluted with an almost-smirk, although as Obi-Wan stepped out of the transport with Waxer at his shoulder, his expression grew more solemn and he stepped over, nodded politely.

“Master Obi-Wan,” he said, thoughtful. “How are you holding up?”

“Quite well, thank you, Kit,” Obi-Wan answered.

“I am sorry about Commander Cody.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “Of course. It has been… somewhat bewildering, I confess. I would love an explanation for the whole affair - But then, that might be a bit much to ask.”

Kit chuckled, low, and briefly touched his shoulder. “Isn’t it always, my friend?” He shook his head, dismissing the idea, then gestured. “Fil and I have been working on our plans, and of course your input and that of your new Commander would be appreciated.”

“Yes, of course. Master Fisto, Commander Fil, this is Commander Waxer,” Obi-Wan said, feeling a touch uncomfortable - and he sensed an unease in Waxer, too, as he stepped forward with a polite nod.

“Your men can of course set up camp with mine,” Kit said, “and I will explain our situation in more detail in our, ah, command center.” He smiled, amusedly, and Obi-Wan chuckled and followed him and Fil. As on most extended campaigns, the “command center” Kit referred to was a tent moderately larger than the others, housing a small, flickering holotable and a couple wobbly chairs. Kit powered up the holotable and rested one hand on the discolored edge of it.

“We’re pushing towards this base,” he explained, gesturing at the map now hovering blue above the table’s surface. “We really just don’t have the numbers to break through these chokepoints here and here.” Kit explained their strategy thus far, pointed out the locations of their troops and the ground they’d gained, and they began to work from there.

Obi-Wan kept glancing over to get Waxer’s input, and each time there was almost a pang of disappointment that it still wasn’t Cody standing there. This would, Obi-Wan supposed, take some getting used to.

Only for the time being.

~~~

High General Obi-Wan Kenobi was going to help with  _ their  _ campaign.

Sketch knew this because Mano wouldn’t fekking _ shut up _ about it. Mano had explained many,  _ many  _ times that he thought General Kenobi was literally the  _ best General _ in the whole GAR. Now he qualified that was “besides ours” but Sketch knew what he really thought.

Especially given he still wouldn’t shut up,  _ gods. _

“The 212th is gonna make the rest of this campaign easy,  _ vod,” _ Mano insisted, scrubbing anxiously at a spot on his helmet (which wouldn’t come off as it was, in fact, a scratch). “Fekk, what if we get to  _ meet  _ General Kenobi?”

“Mano, they’re not gonna introduce a couple of new vode to General Kenobi. This isn’t a weekend jaunt,” Sketch huffed, mildly, adjusting his right bracer for the third time within the past few minutes. “And anyway, I bet you’d weird him out.”

“Would not.  _ Ne’johaa.” _

“I won’t, you’re being a dumbass.”

“Come on,  _ vod, _ they’re fekking  _ cool. _ General Kenobi co-commands with a  _ vod, _ nobody does that.”

“Not nobody. And anyway, didn’t Keel already tell you what he read on the Net?”

“They made that shit up.” Mano shook his head. “Just ‘cause it’s on the HoloNet doesn’t mean it’s true,  _ vod  _ \- as if any self-respecting  _ vod  _ would try to shoot his General.”

“You are being impossible.” Sketch sighed and rubbed his face with one hand, shaking his head. Keel had found a report on the Net, just a small one, about General Kenobi’s Commander going crazy or something. He either got arrested or shot (the report really wasn’t clear, the incident didn’t appear important to anyone) after trying to kill General Kenobi, so Mano’s hero worship would probably be… inconvenienced a little if he believed that story. Sketch figured Mano wouldn’t actually find General Kenobi much different from General Fisto, and he’d have to stop talking like the 212th was the Force’s gift to the GAR.

“I’m just saying, Sketch, it seemed like a random thing for Keel to find and not even a very reliable source.”

“Yeah, because nobody cares about clones,” Sketch pointed out, dryly. “I’m shiny but at least I know that much.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think.” Mano glared at him and scratched irritably at his hair. “This is going to be fekking awesome.”

Sketch didn’t see what the big deal was. General Fisto was a good enough CO, like you’d expect, and a hell of a fighter - what else could they want out of a Jedi General? General Kenobi couldn’t really be that much more impressive than General Fisto, especially considering he was supposedly just a short Human. Both Generals were Masters on the Jedi Council, the difference must be minimal.

Before they were on the move again, word had spread quickly through the camp of something General Fisto had said to General Kenobi, something about being sorry about Commander Cody. It barely took any longer for Keel to circulate the little article he’d found, and for the entire battalion to be whispering about how Marshal Commander Cody had tried to  _ kill  _ High General Kenobi. Mano was pissed off about it, but he kept telling everyone he’d already  _ known, _ so Sketch thought he would get over it.

Sketch wondered if the visiting General knew they were all talking about him - General Fisto always seemed to know when they were all gossiping, but Sketch thought that General Kenobi wouldn’t like knowing they were all talking about his Commander almost killing him. So he decided he would just play it safe and not participate in the gossip, since it seemed unnecessary anyway.

Mano didn’t care about his personal decision, of course, and kept speculating and complaining to him about the whole thing.

“I bet someone made it up,” he suggested, at one point. “It’s not even really what happened, I bet it’s a fake article.”

“Mano,” Sketch told him tiredly, “give it a rest.”

Sketch didn’t actually  _ see  _ General Kenobi until an order went out to the battalion to pack up and be ready to move in no more than thirty standard minutes; he and his unit were striking their tents, already kitted up and carrying their packs, and General Kenobi and several other members of his battalion were helping to get the artillery units ready to go. Sketch was supposed to be helping Kade and another  _ vod  _ pack up one tent, but he noticed General Kenobi out of the corner of his eye and he took a second to look, since he hadn’t really seen any other Jedi besides General Fisto.

General Kenobi was shorter than his men, with red hair the color of copper or rust, depending on how the light hit it; a wiry frame that said he was a precise, quick fighter; and intelligent, defined features. He had a slight smile on his face as Sketch looked at him, but Sketch thought he looked tired, which struck him strangely. He somehow hadn’t thought Jedi  _ could  _ look tired, but… Kenobi did. Sketch wondered if he was imagining things, because in the next moment, Kenobi laughed at something one of his men said, and still… Still there was something in his ice-blue eyes that Sketch thought was sad, closed off.

He must be reading into things too much again.

Kade punched him in the shoulder and Sketch jolted, turned back around to look at him. “Stay focused, _ vod’ika,” _ he said, although he sounded amused. “You’ll have plenty of time to stare at General Kenobi later.”

“I wasn’t staring,” Sketch muttered, rubbing his head. “I was just curious.”

Kade just smiled a little and went back to his work, and Sketch scolded himself and did too. It didn’t matter that General Kenobi was intriguing, or that there was something familiar about the look on the General’s face, the way his eyes glinted a little when he laughed even though he seemed upset. Sketch had no business being curious about General Kenobi.

Still, he couldn’t help watching him whenever he saw him as the two battalions mobilized and split off into their units, under careful direction from the Generals and, by extension, the rest of the officers.

When Sketch saw General Kenobi fight that day, he understood why General Kenobi was a  _ High  _ General, why he commanded so much of the GAR and, perhaps, why he looked so tired - after hours of tight, tense maneuvers and strategic movements, they trapped the majority of the Separatist forces between their battalions, and even General Fisto’s skills paled in comparison to General Kenobi’s. Everyone was whispering on helmet comms, quiet, awed comments about  _ gods, he’s impressive. _

Sketch understood Mano’s tendency toward hero worship, now. There was just something about General Kenobi, something bright and fierce and strangely warm, like he was a sun.

Sketch sat up late with his sketchbook and tried to draw it all out, the saber flashing in the middle of metal and plastoid, but he couldn’t make it look how it had in the heat of the moment.  _ Familiar. _ Important.

He went to sleep without finishing the drawing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter! I finally got Rex in on the fun - don't worry, he'll be here plenty.

_ “You don’t fool me.” His brother jostles his shoulder, grinning brightly and fussing a hand through his own blond hair. “There’s admiring his leadership and then there’s being fekking smitten, ori’vod, and you’re so far gone I think they’re gonna have to declare you MIA.” _

_ “Shut the hells up, ori'vod, you’re not funny.” _

_ “I’m just saying, you might as well be honest with me.” _

_ The bar around them fades into the soft white light of the mess hall during night-cycle, and with it comes a surprising touch on his shoulder, welcome and warm and steady. He shifts a little, doesn’t look up from his hands. _

_ “Are you alright?” The voice is warm, too, and soft. “I thought I’d find you here.” _

_ “I’m fine, sir, don’t worry about it.” He shrugs a bit, but the comforting touch doesn’t go away. He doesn’t know why his General is here. _

_ “You ought to rest more often, Commander. You’ve been running yourself ragged lately.” _

_ “So have you, sir.” _

_ There’s a laugh, clear and fond, and he closes his eyes and other sounds come rushing in. More of the same voice, the voices of his brothers, the sounds of battle too close, something warning and not-right, an explosion ringing in his ears so he doesn’t know what’s happening, and good soldiers follow orders and- _

“Sketch, get the hells up!”

Sketch scrambled out of his bedroll and snatched up his blaster without thinking, fumbling with his other hand for his armor pieces, and suddenly the ground  _ shook  _ and there was light flaring through the canvas of the tent before everything went dark again, and Sketch focused on Mano, who was kitting up with steady-enough fingers and swearing under his breath.

“Holy shit,” Sketch said, articulately, and followed Mano’s example as fast as he could with fingers that didn’t miss a single catch in the dim light. Muscle memory. There was another flash of light outside the tent, this one brighter and accompanied more clearly by a heavy boom that Sketch could feel in his chest.

“Kriff,” Mano said, quietly, fumbling his helmet a bit, but Sketch ignored him, fastened his cuirass and the straps of his pauldrons and snapped on his gunbelt. He didn’t wait for Mano before palming his blaster, tugging on his helmet, and pushing out of the tent into the fiery gold light of half their camp on fire and  _ vode  _ in red and yellow armor forming up into haphazard units in response to shouted orders. The air was thick with smoke from a burning crater several meters away, from smoldering canvas and flesh.

“Rockets,” someone said, and it took Sketch a moment to recognize the armor in the haze. A  _ vod  _ named Ten. “With me, kid.”

Sketch nodded, gripped his blaster rifle tighter, and ran after Ten as he rallied other dazed  _ vode  _ to come with them. They were making for the edge of camp, the east side, Sketch thought, right into what appeared to be the thickest fighting. Stray blaster bolts and blasts from cannons had replaced the explosions, now, and this part of the camp was just a mess of churned earth and charred remnants of tents and, most of all,  _ light. _ Garish, blinding, more difficult to track than in daylight battle - everything felt too sudden and mixed up, and it took Sketch a moment of concentration to resolve the mess of blue and green and red in front of him into something he could work with.

Once he did, everything fell into routine, although there was a surreal edge to everything: take position shoulder-to-shoulder with his vode, focus through the sights of his blaster, pull the trigger again and again, break for cover when a blaster cannon was directed their way.

The Jedi were there, too, both of them, General Fisto and General Kenobi, little more than pale figures, their lightsabers dizzying swathes of light in the dark, blue and green, inspiring, and for just a moment Sketch found himself awed again.  _ Jedi. _ He didn’t understand them.

Another rocket shrieked toward them and Sketch saw General Kenobi and General Fisto lift their hands, and the rocket exploded soundlessly above them, the flame and light of it roiling against nothing, held back from the men by an invisible shield - the  _ Force, _ Sketch realized. Sunspots flared in his vision and he looked away, firing randomly into the dark in front of him until the spotty shadows resolved into threatening droids again. He was so focused on the threat in front of him, putting blaster bolts through droid faceplates, that the scorching impact in his hip caught him completely off guard, and he staggered, whirling automatically just in time to see another droid level a blaster against his helmet.

The world flashed blue, his HUD shorted, and Sketch stumbled back further, staring and blinking spots out of his eyes.

The droid that’d been about to shoot him lay on the ground, bisected down the middle, and Obi-Wan Kenobi stood there cutting burning lines through the droid forces, the light of his saber casting blue along the planes of his face and eyes. For just a moment, Sketch stared, arrested by the power of General Kenobi’s movement, his ferocity, the narrow save. General Kenobi saved  _ him. _ Then he shook himself, pushed away a sense of warmth and gratefulness, and refocused on the battle.

But still, the odd warmth remained, a familiar twist of pride when he thought about a brief moment, when the General had glanced back at him with a smile and a nod, as if acknowledging his gratitude and suggesting he had been happy to help him.

They drove the droids out of their camp and destroyed at least half of the invasion force, in Commander Fil’s estimation. Then they began to clean up the wreckage of the camp, their destroyed tents and supplies, and took inventory of what had to be replaced. It was, by most measures, a disaster. They'd pushed back the droids, but their supplies were in shambles. Sketch pretended not to be quietly looking around in case he could see General Kenobi again, because for some reason that he couldn’t name, he felt drawn to the way the General seemed to  _ see  _ them. Some of the others were commenting on it, too, but quietly, a bit embarrassed - General Fisto was amazing, he had never let them down, but there was something else entirely about General Kenobi.

No one seemed to want to talk about it much, though, beyond an awkward comment or so in reference, and Sketch knew he had to be focused on his duty.

Still, before he fell asleep, early in the morning after they had all finished their tasks, he sat up in the dim light that filtered into the tent from watchfires and scribbled outlines of an intelligent, smiling face, of an uplifted saber and a droid cut in pieces.

He understood Mano’s hero worship a little better, now, perhaps.

~~~

Obi-Wan felt oddly reluctant to leave Felucia, this time around - perhaps it was simply that he knew it wasn’t likely that his technicians had been able to access Kamino’s records, perhaps it was a fear of beginning his private mission to find Cody in earnest. After all, if he pursued this thread and visited Kamino and still found nothing, that might mean that there really was no finding Cody again. He knew he shouldn’t assume the worst, but there was so much he didn’t understand about the process of reconditioning - a disciplinary measure which the Jedi had worked hard to eliminate but had not been entirely able to. The GAR was not under their jurisdiction, and trying to force the issue would make them appear to be trying to control things that were none of their affair, but there were times Obi-Wan (and others, he knew) considered it anyway.

Right now, especially, Obi felt that the strained public relations would be a small enough price to pay. (Never mind that they operated in the public sphere and often relied heavily on the cooperation of civilians and the Senate. Never mind that the Senate and GAR would likely restrict their control of military operations in retaliation for such a perceived overreach.) He had never lost one of his own men to this before, had never seen how deeply it affected everyone involved. And he understood why they considered it almost a death. If he could not find and help Cody, his Commander as he had known him, with his particular controlled warmth and quiet amusement, strength and fierceness, would be gone and replaced with new memories and a new personality.

Obi-Wan wondered if Cody would still feel the same in the Force, or if that would change too. Come to think of it, he supposed... he probably would feel different. In any case, if-  _ when  _ he discovered Cody again, he’d find out for certain.

He hoped he was wrong, and that Cody would feel the same as he always had.

As he had expected, his men had not been able to retrieve any files for him, so after they had returned to their cruiser and the battalion was taken care of, Obi-Wan gave Waxer his instructions for the day or two he intended to be gone, then packed himself a small satchel and took his fighter from the  _ Negotiator’s  _ hangar.

The flight was an anxious affair, despite the intervals of meditation that Obi-Wan attempted along the way. He couldn’t really let go of his nerves - not because he didn’t think he could manage the mission, but because he feared that what he found would give him no hope for Cody.

Whatever happened, however, at least he could learn where Cody was now and be sure that he was alright.

Obi-Wan docked his fighter at the landing pad of Kamino’s cloning facilities, climbing out into a rainy afternoon that was almost as dark as night. Cody had once told Obi-Wan that it was rare to have a sunny day on Kamino, so when there was one, sometimes the cadets would sneak outside to swim close to the facility, enjoy the sun and take potshots at the aiwhas. At Obi-Wan’s disapproving look, Cody had added that they mostly left the aiwhas alone,  _ you don’t have to give me that look, sir. _

But it was not sunny today. It was raining and cold, and Cody’s few stories about his cadet days weren’t important right now, so Obi tucked his cloak tightly around him, his hands in his sleeves, and walked through the front doors of the cloning facilities.

He was met almost immediately by two troopers and what appeared to be a male Kaminoan, although in truth Obi sometimes had trouble telling the difference. “Master Kenobi,” he said, his voice unnaturally deep and oddly pitched. “You have returned. Is this about CC-2224?”

Obi-Wan tightened his arms around his stomach under his robe, forcing a polite, thin smile. “In part. I actually intended to review a matter about the case - I am aware that I’m not permitted access to much information about the disciplinary facilities, but would it be acceptable if I were to ask a few more questions of some of the troopers on duty here?”

“You spent quite some time here before, Master Kenobi,” the scientist said, his blank face wrinkling in what looked like disapproval. “I cannot think of what other questions you could think to ask us.”

Obi inclined his head slightly. “I will not take long. Commander Cody attempted to kill me, so you must understand why I am not letting this issue fall by the wayside without exhausting all my options.”

“Very well.” The Kaminoan nodded and gestured down the hall. “By all means, you may speak to whoever you need.”

“Thank you.” Obi smiled and swept off down the hall, slicking back his soaking hair. He couldn’t help but be amused when he heard a noise of muffled irritation from behind him, likely because of the trail of rainwater he left on the pristine floors. Since he hadn’t been out in the rain long, however, he simply had to wring the homespun material out to keep from continuing to make a mess of things as he hurried through the halls.

There were too many troopers on patrol, and a number of cadets running around and eyeing him with fascinated curiosity, and Obi-Wan needed to get where he was going unnoticed. He had a fairly good idea of the layout of the facilities, and he knew that most of the databanks and record systems were on the same level as the growth tanks for the young clones. There would be less activity there, but while he wasn’t too concerned about people knowing where he had gone, he didn’t want to be obvious with the fact that he was snooping around. At least not until  _ after  _ he had the information he needed. So he reached for the Force and quietly pulled it around him like a second skin, a shield that told the people around him  _ not to look, _ and moved more quickly down the hallway, looking for a lift that he could take to the lower levels of the facility - the tenth level, if he recalled correctly, would be where he could find the information.

When he opened the lift, two troopers were standing in it and talking, but they stopped and nodded deferentially at Obi as he stepped into the lift with them.

“Gentlemen,” Obi said, nodding back. “Forgive me, but would you mind allowing me my privacy?”

“Of course, sir,” one of them said, quickly, and they hurried out of the lift, the door hissing closed behind them. Excellent.

Obi-Wan tapped the small display screen, and selected the number of the floor he wanted. The lift shifted slightly, then began to move down, and Obi-Wan sighed and centered himself, waved his fingers so that the security cameras in the lift blinked off. This was not strictly illegal, but the GAR would undoubtedly complain that he was interfering with their affairs, and the Jedi didn’t need any more bad press. So Obi-Wan was looking for minimal supervision.

The lift doors opened to much dimmer hallways, durasteel and closed doors and only a few patrolling troopers. Obi-Wan kept the Force close around him, stepped outside of the lift, closed his eyes, and reached out into the Force for the feel of the space around him.

There were the bright, distinct signatures of clones in the halls, and from most of the rooms nearby, dimmer, dormant signatures of what he assumed were clones in the growth tanks, not yet decanted, like they were sleeping. Obi-Wan took a moment to parse out where the signatures were located, then began moving down the hall to his right. There was, he sensed, a space there with no signatures at all, large enough to be its own room with, hopefully, access to the databanks.

He could sense curiosity and concern from the troopers around him, because despite the mitigating effect of the Force, a Jedi passing through this part of the compound unaccompanied drew attention. Obi-Wan didn’t pay them any mind, just passed a series of closed doors until he came to one on the left which seemed to be the way into the room with no signatures. The door was locked, so Obi-Wan waved his hand so that the keypad flashed green, and hit a button to open it.

“Sir?”

Obi turned to see an uncomfortable-looking, helmetless clone with a small star-shaped tattoo on his cheek standing by the door, arms crossed.

“Sir, all due respect, but this area is restricted to the CC’s and authorized personnel.”

Obi-Wan caught himself just before he attempted a mind-trick - he had learned some time ago that those didn’t work on the clones, when he had tried to make Cody forget that Obi-Wan was supposed to be in the medbay. It hadn’t worked - Cody had glared and dragged him back, and Obi-Wan had learned his lesson. So instead, he smiled politely, waved his fingers to switch off a few more cameras, and said, “Of course, my apologies, Commander,” earning a slight smile that told him that he had correctly assessed the trooper’s rank, “but I am simply in need of information and I was told I could have a brief look.”

“If it’s alright, sir, I’d prefer to check-”

“Commander.” Obi-Wan stopped him, holding up a hand, inching Force suggestion into his voice even if it would only help a little. “This is very important to me. I am on a tight schedule before I need to get back to my battalion, and I am trying to discover why Marshall Commander Cody attempted to kill me. While I understand and appreciate your caution, I don’t believe your superiors will be pleased to find you impeded my investigation.”

The Commander hesitated, looking thoughtfully at him, then nodded and said, “Very well, sir. I apologize for the interruption.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Obi-Wan smiled and moved into the room, neatly shutting the door behind him. He waved the cameras off with a moment of concentration, and moved to one of the banks of computers. While the room was not particularly high security, the computers seemed to require either a fingerprint or an override key, neither of which Obi-Wan had, but before he had worried about it long, a puttering little droid wheeled over, chattering to itself in binary. It seemed entirely absorbed in its own business, and was going back and forth between the computers, inserting something into the override key slots. Apparently, it was backing up the databanks or perhaps scanning the information, but it had a key that Obi-Wan could use.

So he stole it.

The droid let out an outraged squeak, but Obi-Wan was already slotting the key into place and leaning forward to study the computer screen. Apparently he could access all of the basic files from here - records of the latest batches of clones, assignments of troops to new battalions, promotions and demotions, assignments to details within Kamino, disciplinary measures pending or confirmed, and a hundred other neatly-kept records and reports on the more mundane of Kamino’s operations.

It took a few tries to find the right files, in a subsection under  _ Reassignments  _ labelled  _ Special Cases _ and further sorted by number and class of trooper. Perhaps, Obi-Wan thought wryly, if he were familiar with the system everything were filed under, all the subcategories and quirks of sorting would be helpful, but as it was, it had just slowed him down. Either way, he’d found what he needed, so he swiped open the file innocuously marked  _ CC-2224, _ bringing up a succinct bulleted page. At the top corner of the page was a photo of Cody and his number, name, and rank. Obi also noted a description of his training and a record of where he had been assigned in the past, but he ignored those, as he was familiar with them already and he was only after one particular piece of information.

_ More information located in the archives, _ a note near the bottom of the page read.  _ Current records filed under CT-9601. _

Obi-Wan smiled, slightly, committed the number to memory, and spent another five minutes irritably scrolling through the files for a list of troopers. Honestly, would it have killed the Kaminoans to implement a “search” feature, or at the very least a less complex structure of organization? Nothing was where it should have been.

He found Cody’s new file in a list of troopers in the 406th battalion, which was…. Irritatingly ironic, he supposed. The picture was decidedly still Cody, with the familiar scar around his eye and regulation haircut, but the name was listed as “Sketch,” and there were a number of notes about the training he had recently received versus what had been listed in the original file. Obi-Wan was about to turn the computer back off and hand the override key back to the droid that was still cursing at him in binary when he noticed an extra line of script near the bottom of the page.  _ Unit malfunction addressed - monitor further. _ Obi-Wan wasn’t entirely sure what the Kaminoans would classify as a “malfunction” in a sentient being, and was even less sure what they thought “addressing” it would look like. Most likely the memory wipe and reassignment were their solution to the problem.

Obi-Wan shut off the computer, placated the droid (who scooted off with another series of offended beeps), and hurried back through the facility, already comming Kit and ignoring the same Kaminoan scientist who tried to ask him whether he had any luck and if he needed any assistance.

_ “Master Kenobi?” _ Kit’s voice crackled through Obi-Wan’s commlink as he stepped outside into the lashing rain and wind of the beginnings of an electrical storm.

“Master Fisto,” Obi-Wan greeted, quickly, almost impatient. “Could I ask a favor?”

_ “Of course.” _ Kit sounded concerned. Obi-Wan climbed into his fighter and sat for just a moment in the comparative quiet, because although he wanted to rush straight back to Coruscant, he needed to think and communicate clearly. And he knew, logically, that there was no need to hurry - Cody was, after all, safe with Kit, and a transfer would take a couple days to go through regardless of how quickly Obi-Wan was back with his battalion.

“I believe I found my Commander, Kit,” Obi-Wan said, lightly, watching the rain cascade down the windows of the one-person cockpit. “As a matter of fact, the Kaminoans’ records say he’s in your battalion.”

_ “How’d you get them to let you see those?” _ Kit asked, then snorted.  _ “Never mind. Would you like me to have him transferred back to your battalion?” _

“I’d appreciate it, yes. His name is Sketch, right now, it would seem.” Obi-Wan stopped, briefly, and hesitated. It occurred to him, rather suddenly, that if the file listed a name, either Cody chose a new name for himself or was given one. For the clones, names were part of their identity more than for most people, and perhaps if Cody had chosen a new name and, for all intents and purposes, become someone else, it would be unkind to pull him away from his battalion and brothers when Obi-Wan might not even be able to get his memories back. Sketch, whoever he was, likely wouldn’t understand or appreciate what Obi-Wan meant to be an attempt to help Cody, so for a moment he almost told Kit to forget it and simply see if he could have a meeting with…. with Sketch.

_ “I can put in the paperwork,” _ Kit said.  _ “Is it true that you’re still not sure why he attacked you?” _

Obi-Wan sighed, thoughtfully. “Yes, actually. And apparently the Kaminoans intend to monitor him.” So perhaps it would be better, at least for now, to continue as he had planned. If he couldn’t figure out what had happened, or how to get Cody’s memories and identity back, then he could let Sketch go back to the 406th, and they could all try to move on. It was a bit of a messy situation, and if Obi-Wan had the inclination, he was sure he could spend a long time debating the ethics of the situation. But he didn’t think he had the luxury, just now, and there would be time to fix things if this was a mistake.

_ “Alright. May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan.” _

“And with you.”

~~~

It had been almost two weeks since they took Cody, and almost as long since Rex last slept. Not for lack of trying, not yet, but every time he tried the questions and pain got so loud that he was forced to get up and find something to do to occupy his mind.

General Skywalker and Ahsoka were worried, and kept promising him that General Kenobi had said he was looking for Cody, and that Rex could take leave after this campaign, if he wanted. They couldn't seem to find anything else to say. Ahsoka was good company, sometimes, and Anakin had been sticking close to Rex during their skirmishes, but none of it really helped, except that it kept him busy. They’d been on this campaign since before Cody was taken, and Rex hadn’t even been able to contact anyone about Cody except for Waxer - General Skywalker had, apparently, spoken to General Kenobi, so Rex knew what had happened. Cody was gone,  _ erased,  _ swept away somewhere into the vast GAR as a rank-and-file trooper who may never even step foot on the same planet as him again.  _ Cody.  _ This sort of thing was  _ never  _ supposed to happen to him, Cody was the one who always did things right, who never got in trouble, who knew just how far he could push the rules and always stopped just shy of crossing the line. And General Kenobi had  _ let them  _ take Cody. It was probably for the best that Rex himself had only spoken to Waxer - he knew he shouldn’t be angry with General Kenobi, but he was anyway and wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to hide it.

Because perhaps it wasn’t the General’s fault, but who else was there to protect Cody? Cody wouldn’t have ever tried to hurt General Kenobi without a  _ reason,  _ and Rex would have expected Kenobi to know that. But Cody was gone, and if General Kenobi ever did find him again, he wouldn’t be able to change anything. Much as Rex wanted to believe there was a fix for reconditioning, a way to save his  _ ori’vod,  _ he knew better.

He knew better.

So he had spent yet another night pacing through the camp, ostensibly on patrol, really just trying to keep moving. Nobody bothered him - they knew better - and he nearly fell asleep on his feet a few times, but he was too tense for that.

He should've been there. Or at least, he should've gotten to say goodbye. Cody would've told him what was wrong, he knew it - they were both too stubborn but they told each other things they wouldn't tell anyone else. Maybe he could’ve stopped them, and fixed it, if he’d just-

Damn this campaign.

Everything was starting to  _ hurt, _ and Rex walked faster, trying to shake some of the thoughts clamoring for his attention. There was nothing he could do about it and he needed to accept that. Cody was gone, he knew that, no use agonizing over a lost cause. They'd shipped him off and wiped him away and that was it and he'd been  _ alone, _ with no one to make it easier, he'd have been scared, Rex didn't get to  _ say goodbye _ -

There was nothing for it. Rex knew that. But Cody was his batchmate, his closest brother, the only one he'd ever been able to talk to about  _ everything, _ and now Rex was alone. Ahsoka didn't really understand, and Anakin- Anakin had tried to help. He'd said he knew Rex was angry, and that he was sorry, and he didn't want him to feel alone. Rex appreciated the concern and at the same time wanted Anakin to leave it alone.

He paced double-time through the camp until his eyes ached from staying open and exhaustion settled a fog over his thoughts so they weren't so loud. It was a quiet night, without incident - they’d secured this sector of the planet, and General Skywalker had said they ought to be able to head back to Coruscant within the next week. As the sun started to rise on a grey morning, and the men started stirring, Rex headed back to his tent. Just as he was nearing it, intending to eat a ration bar and collect his pack in preparation for a march, his comm went off on his wrist, and he absently answered it: “Captain Rex.”

_ “I’m glad to have reached you, Captain,”  _ said the familiar, accented voice of General Kenobi. Rex, almost unconsciously, clenched his teeth and stopped walking, his already-sore shoulders hunching forward.  _ “Do you have a moment to talk?” _

“Of course, sir,” Rex said, steadily, glancing around. No one was really around yet, to hear his conversation, but he still moved away from the middle of the camp to the shadow of a tent so he at least had a modicum of privacy. “What did you need?”

There was a short pause before he got a response.  _ “How have you been, Captain?”  _ Any other day, Rex would have appreciated Kenobi asking, and how quietly he asked it, but at the moment it somehow infuriated him.

He  _ wanted  _ to say  _ how do you think,  _ but instead he took a deep breath and looked up, at his brothers marching around camp. “Well enough,” he said, coolly. “I am in a bit of a hurry right now, General, if you could please come to the point.”

Again, General Kenobi paused before speaking, and sounded very hesitant when he finally said,  _ “Anakin tells me you’re merely mopping up on Hosnian Prime now, is that correct?” _

“Yes sir.”

_ “He also told me that they were going to allow you leave, after this campaign… I have a proposal.”  _ Kenobi stopped, and Rex was just opening his mouth to tell him to go on, when he said,  _ “I’ve found Cody, Rex. He’s being transferred back to the 212th in a few days.” _

Rex’s stomach dropped, the air punched out of him in a bitten-off noise of surprise. “Where is he?” he asked, quickly, hoping the General would ignore his reaction. “Is he okay?” The second question was stupid, but he couldn’t help it.

_ “He was with General Fisto’s battalion,”  _ General Kenobi explained, gently.  _ “Unless he objects, he’ll be back with us on Coruscant in the morning in two days. I had thought… perhaps when you get back you would like to spend your leave with the 212th, so you can see him.” _

Rex rubbed his free hand over his face, taking a shaky, slow breath. “I… What do you plan to do when you get him back, General?” he asked, frankly. His voice was weaker than he wished it was. “I doubt they’ll have designated him a CC, so you can’t make him your Commander again, and he won’t remember you or anyone else. Of course I would like to see him, but I think… Sir, there’s no getting him back. Not properly.” No one had ever even  _ tried,  _ much less succeeded. There were rumors about  _ vode  _ trying to help reconditioned shinies make sense of odd dreams, or scars, but never any luck, and word among the commanding officers was that it was wiser not to draw attention to the memory loss and simply to help troopers to accept that they could be someone new. It was too much of a strain on the troopers otherwise. No one even seemed to know how exactly reconditioning worked, so how could they possibly combat it?

_ “I intend to try regardless,”  _ General Kenobi sighed,  _ “if he will let me. I have access to resources that may help, and there’s always the Jedi healers, if technology is not helpful. I really do believe we can help him, Rex - and discover why this happened in the first place.” _

“And what if he doesn’t want help, General?” Rex asked, quietly. “What if you’re wrong? I’d like you to be right, of course, but I don’t know what use I’d be there when he doesn’t even... know who I am.” Perhaps he would visit, yes, to confirm to himself that Cody was alive even if he was beyond Rex’s reach now. So that he wouldn’t feel guilty for letting him go.

General Kenobi sighed quietly.  _ “Then I suppose I’ll ask him what he’d like to do. At the least, perhaps he can tell me if the Kaminoans have given him any idea as to what they believe he did, what the process of reconditioning entailed… If nothing else, Captain, I suppose that will be useful.”  _ Kenobi paused.  _ “I know that you and your brothers believe what I’m doing is foolish. Waxer has said as much to me, that you don’t believe we can get Cody back. But perhaps… You may be biased because no one has really done this before. There  _ are  _ options, I am sure.” _ There was a  _ smile  _ in his voice, nearly. It made Rex angry.

“I’ll visit,” he said, sharply. “I’ll see him for myself. But I doubt I’ll have any reason to stay, General. I hope, for your sake, that you figure something out, since I’m sure that’ll make you feel better, but I’d suggest you accept that he’s gone and you’re too late.”

_ “Thank you for the advice, Captain,”  _ General Kenobi said, quietly.  _ “I’m sorry that they took him.” _

“Good for you,” Rex snapped, and then, in a rush of regret and embarrassment and humiliation, cut the comm connection and pressed his hand to his forehead. He was so tired, and angry. And maybe he shouldn’t have said any of what he did to a High General, but what would anyone do to him for it, really? Perhaps General Kenobi would reprimand him, but that would be the end of it. Because in reality, they both knew Rex was right. It was far too little and too late to try and fix this, whatever General Kenobi thought. Cody was gone. That was it. They could say goodbye to whatever was left of him and General Kenobi would try his best and in the end, he’d have gotten his hopes up for nothing.

Rex wasn’t going to make the same mistake.

Still, the next day, when the battalion finally left Hosnian Prime on  _ The Resolute,  _ nursing their wounds, Rex told General Skywalker and Ahsoka that he intended to go straight to the 212th’s barracks as soon as they returned to GAR headquarters, and he’d be back when he was ready to be. Neither of them argued with him. Ahsoka, in a slightly awkward, quick move, gave him a tight hug and told him it would be okay. She still wasn’t a very good liar, so he knew she wasn’t sure she meant it. But it was nice of her to try.

Rex knew this was going to hurt. But it would be better than never feeling quite sure what happened to Cody, never knowing where he’d ended up. He’d find out, and that would be it. He could take his own advice and let go, and they’d move on. That was the best he could do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for the reunion? Haha

Sketch shaded along the edge of a face he was trying to recognize, something he dreamed from the night before. It was a brother, he knew that much, but other than that he couldn’t fit a name to the specific face and armor patterns. As he always did, he felt a pang of disappointment that he couldn’t identify the things and people he dreamed about - sometimes it felt like a word just on the tip of his tongue, like he would just know who the different faces belonged to if he had a moment to think about it, but that feeling was always gone by the time he had gone about his business for the day and left his notebook full of drawings in his pack. He stared at this newest drawing for a minute, adjusted a few lines of the face, and then sighed and rubbed his forehead. He didn’t really know who he was kidding, trying to remember any of this. After all, whoever he’d been before was probably a failure at best, a traitor at worst, so remembering it would just upset him. He was being ridiculous - he’d gotten a second chance, and he had friends here and Kade had given him armor paint and he had a good General and a good battalion. So it was stupid to keep worrying about dreams. Stupid and distracting.

He closed his sketchbook and put it away, reaching for his armor to put it on. He still didn’t feel like painting it, but he was one of the only  _ vode  _ left with clean armor and Mano was starting to bother him about it. Keel didn’t, at least, but he seemed concerned too. Sketch just kept telling Mano that he hadn’t finished deciding what he wanted to paint yet. Mano complained about  _ artistic types _ and Sketch ignored him and drew pictures of brothers and patterns and sometimes General Kenobi.

But Mano was probably right.

They were on their way back to Coruscant for a couple days leave after their partly-successful Felucia mission, everyone lounging in the barracks, and Kade and some of the others were happily settled in to play sabacc, betting for turns at KP, favors, paint, alcohol, and extra blaster parts. Sketch fitted on his armor and then sat quietly on his bunk for a moment before reaching under the bunk to pull out his pot of red paint. A little paint would be a good idea, he thought. After all, it had been a gift, and he needed to fit in here. There was no point in wasting a second chance because he felt unsure of himself, after all.

He painted a couple neat stripes around his left bracer, and, deciding that he liked the look of them, added a couple to his right bracer too. It did feel good, he thought, making it  _ his  _ armor.

Keel laughed at him a bit, when he came over a few minutes later - Sketch had realized he’d made a mistake, painted the armor while wearing it, and was gingerly sitting and reading on his datapad, trying not to mess up the new paint job.

“Look at you, you have some color now,” Keel teased, leaning against the side of Sketch’s bunk. “You practically went crazy.”

“Shut up,” Sketch grumbled, reaching up to rub the side of his neck. “I just wanted to see if I liked it.”

Keel grinned at him, although he looked understanding. “Sure,  _ vod. _ It looks good, you should keep it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I might.” Sketch smiled a little, looked over the bracers again, and was glad to find that a certain sense of personal pride finally outweighed an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Maybe painting the rest of his kit would help, too, he could make it look however he wanted and he could be comfortable here.

He reached for his paintbrush again and painted a small series of tally marks on his pauldron. That felt right, seven for the number of battles he’d been in.

While he and Keel were talking quietly, watching Mano get his ass kicked in sabacc across the room, the General walked into the barracks in his robes and strode through the rows of bunks towards them. Although he probably wasn’t actually here to talk to them, Keel straightened up and Sketch put away his paint and set his datapad down so he could sit up straight and look focused. He was oddly self-conscious about the paint on his armor and was embarrassed that he wondered what General Fisto would think of it. Was that normal? He wasn’t sure.

General Fisto did, after all, walk straight up to them and stop by Sketch’s bunk, his hands behind his back, looking serious. Keel shot Sketch an almost alarmed look, and Sketch scrambled to his feet and saluted, then settled into parade rest.

“At ease,” General Fisto said, smoothly. “It’s Sketch, correct?”

“Yes sir,” Sketch answered, his voice embarrassingly shaky as he settled into a more comfortable stance. “What did you need, sir?”

The General smiled at him. “I actually came to inform you that, unless you had any objections, you will be transferring battalions.”

“Sir?” Sketch’s heart dropped into his stomach, and he tried not to look as hurt and anxious as he suddenly felt, but he had just begun to know  _ vode  _ here, and his armor had color now - what could he have done wrong? Was it because of all his drawing? Did the others not like how much he kept to himself? Did the General know he’d been reconditioned and not want him there anymore?

General Fisto reached over and set a hand on his shoulder, smiling and quickly shaking his head - he must be able to sense all Sketch’s nerves. “You don’t have to go if you really don’t want to,” the General said, “but it was requested that you be transferred to the 212th.”

Sketch’s eyes widened. A request for him, specifically? “Sir, I… I’m not saying no, sir, but why?”

Fisto hesitated, then gestured for him to follow, and they walked away from the bunk and Keel and the rest of the  _ vode  _ so it was just the two of them standing between a couple unoccupied bunks. “You were assigned to my battalion after being reconditioned, Sketch, weren’t you?”

If it weren’t for how warm and kind the General’s voice was when he said that, Sketch would have panicked. As it was, he swallowed and looked down and twisted his hands together. “I was, sir, I was trying to do my best-”

“Don’t worry about it.” The General put his hand back on Sketch’s shoulder. “General Kenobi requested your transfer to his battalion because you were part of it before, I’m told. I have to admit, I don’t know how you feel about any of this, so again, if you would rather not go back, we can discuss it and cancel the transfer, or you can reverse it at any point if you do go and it is too hard for you. But otherwise I think General Kenobi would like to be able to speak to you about who you were, and what happened.”

Unbidden, the little, well-circulated news article from before about Marshall Commander Cody sprang into Sketch’s mind. He pushed the thought aside, hesitating. This battalion was his new start, his chance to be a good soldier and make up for what went wrong before. What if he went to the 212th and he was hated there, what if he was truly a traitor? And he shouldn’t want to know who he was before, because he was  _ Sketch  _ now. He had brothers and he liked to draw and he didn’t want to try to explain that to anyone - at least here, no one knew he had once been a traitor.

But… he did want to know. He felt so unsure of himself all the time, knowing he was somehow defective, and he dreamed so much… Perhaps if he went to the 212th and spoke to General Kenobi, he would understand why. Then he could come back, like General Fisto said, if he hated it. But maybe this would be a way to get answers. He had, after all, wanted to learn who he was before.

“Alright, sir,” he said, carefully, feeling unsteady. “What do I need to do?”

“When we get back to Coruscant, General Kenobi is going to come speak to you about the transfer. For now, try not to worry.” The Jedi smiled, his inhuman eyes seeming warm and understanding, and Sketch nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, firmly. “I won’t.”

General Fisto nodded back at him, turned, and strode over to the game of sabacc, laughing as he did and calling out to Kade to deal him in. Sketch rubbed his face, nervously, and hurried back to Keel.

“What was that about,  _ vod?” _ Keel asked, concerned. He gestured at Sketch’s bunk, so Sketch sat down again and dropped his chin onto his hands. “That seemed serious.”

“I’m being transferred.” Sketch found it much more disappointing and frightening to say out loud than it had been when he was just thinking about it. He frowned, told himself to get over it. “General Kenobi requested me for his battalion.”

When he looked up, Keel was gaping at him, eyes wide.  _ “General Kenobi _ requested you?” Keel said, shocked. “Why?”

For a moment, looking at him, Sketch almost told him everything, how he didn’t know who he was and he felt trapped and unsure what to do, who to be, whether he should really care who’d he’d been before. Instead, he just paused, smiled, shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just really cool.”

“Shut  _ up,” _ Keel said, a slow grin spreading over his face. “Oh my gods.  _ Sketch. _ You got personally requested by the _ High General _ of the Seven Systems Army. Mano is gonna be so jealous.”

“What if I don’t like it?” Sketch was embarrassed as soon as the question left his mouth, but he couldn’t take it back, and Keel was still smiling at him, more kindly now. “I mean- I care about you all, this battalion is good - I just painted my armor, Keel.”

“Then you could ask them to let you transfer back,” Keel said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “But you should go,  _ vod, _ this could be really cool. I mean, we’ll still be able to talk to each other, and you can rub it in Mano’s face forever.”

“I don’t know if that’s worth it,” Sketch muttered, although he smiled a little at the idea. “He’d be so fekking jealous. Not that it’s hard to make him mad.”

“Look, Sketch, just… try to enjoy it,” Keel said, more seriously. “It could be good for you. Anyway, you’re a really good fighter, so I bet you’ll fit in there fine. We’ll... miss you, obviously, but this is  _ great.” _

“You’re right.” Sketch sighed and nodded. “It’ll be fine.”

Maybe if he told himself that often enough, he wouldn’t feel so nervous. Really, joining a new battalion again wouldn’t be so bad. Just another readjustment. It was fine.

He got out his sketchbook and started scribbling out pictures of Mano and Keel, to keep himself from covering the whole page in tally marks.

Mano, predictably, did have a fit. Partially because Sketch only told him what was happening when they were back on Coruscant, a few minutes before General Kenobi came into their barracks, his robes, hair, and hands neatly arranged. Strangely, there was an almost anxious, distracted look on his face and a narrow, bright focus in his blue eyes - it wasn’t a look you expected from a Jedi. Sketch was hovering awkwardly by his bunk, with his sketchbook and other things stuffed in his pack and Mano practically vibrating by his left shoulder. Keel was standing much more calmly beside Mano, with his arms crossed so he could pretend he didn’t really care very much that the High General was here. Everyone  _ else  _ was shooting them curious looks and saluting towards General Kenobi, not bothering to pretend like Keel was.

_ “You’re gonna be fine, vod,” _ Keel said, in Mando’a, as General Kenobi’s eyes landed on them and his walk grew more purposeful.

Sketch didn’t  _ feel  _ like he was going to be fine. He shifted his helmet from under one arm to the other, rubbed his fingers over his right bracer before catching himself, then straightened to attention as General Kenobi came up to them and stopped a few paces away, a funny smile playing around his mouth.

“General Kenobi,” Sketch said politely, saluting.

“At ease,” the General answered, sounding very nearly amused. “Your name is Sketch, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Sketch nodded, quickly, tried to smile and then felt a bit foolish. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

General Kenobi’s expression twisted a bit, for a moment, his little smile faltering, and then he nodded politely. “Good to meet you as well.” He nodded at Mano and Keel, and Sketch shook himself.

“These are my brothers, Mano and Keel,” he said, gesturing at each one. Mano looked like he might actually pass out. Keel just saluted, sharp and quick.

Kenobi nodded at them, eyes warm, and asked after their wellbeing, told them he appreciated the welcome. Then he turned back to Sketch, growing more serious and tucking his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his Jedi robes. “Are you quite sure you’re alright with this transfer, Sketch?” he asked, quietly. “I am aware that- Perhaps you would rather not know who you were before, and if that is the case I promise you that you don’t have to come with me.”

Sketch hesitated, just a moment, then nodded. “I know, sir. But I- have wondered. General Fisto did tell me that if I wanted to request a transfer back, I could.”

“Of course,” Kenobi assured him, quickly. “I would certainly understand. For the time being then, though, you are alright with the transfer?”

“Yes, sir,” Sketch agreed, after taking a short, steadying breath. “I’m ready to go,” he added, hiking his pack a bit further up on his shoulders, demonstratively.

General Kenobi nodded gracefully, said that they might as well go, and so Sketch hugged both Mano and Keel as hard as he could, momentarily not wanting to go after all. But “good luck,” said Keel, and “tell me  _ everything,” _ said Mano, and then Sketch was leaving anyway.

There was a short speeder ride from their barracks to the 212th’s, taken in silence with General Kenobi and Commander Waxer. Sketch was uncomfortably aware that both of them kept looking at him, concern and thoughtfulness mixing in their expressions. He stopped looking at them after a while, just looked out around Coruscant and nervously fidgeted with his helmet.

"It's really going to be alright,  _ vod," _ Commander Waxer said, as their speeder slowed in front of another barracks. He sounded strained, but at least sure of himself, so Sketch glanced at him and nodded, trying to look equally confident.

From the tight, pained expression that flitted over the Commander's features, it was clear that his attempt had failed. Sketch looked down and followed him and General Kenobi off the speeder and into their barracks.

The 212th had barracks exactly the same as every other battalion's, the rows of bunks laid out the same, but it didn't feel anything like General Fisto's barracks, maybe because as they walked between the bunks, everyone went quiet and stared. Not at the General, or Commander Waxer. At  _ Sketch. _ He was getting a bad feeling about this.

By the time they left the main barracks, coming to the officers' hallways, Sketch had a death grip on his helmet. They went into an office, which was also uniform, like every other office, and Commander Waxer stood by the singular desk, while General Kenobi sat down behind it.

"Do you want to take a seat?" the General asked, gesturing behind Sketch - there was an extra, creaky-looking chair leaning against the wall. Sketch nodded, pulled the chair over, set his helmet underneath it on the floor, and sat down in front of the General and Commander, feeling a bit like he was sitting for an interrogation.

The General sighed and smiled at him. "I apologize for all this," he said. "I know it's highly irregular."

"It's alright," Sketch said, nodding. He wanted to ask who he was, what he did, and skip the pleasantries, but he was quiet and waited for a cue from the General.

Kenobi sighed again and folded his hands on top of the desk. "When you were taken from my battalion, we were very concerned for you. I had a great many unanswered questions and had been unable to ask any of them."

Sketch looked down, anxiously - surely the General knew he couldn’t answer any questions about before, now. That was half the point of reconditioning.

“I have hoped that I could at least try to explain things to you and see if it brings anything to mind, or if you could think of some insight that I couldn’t,” the General continued, “because it’s rather important to me that I try to get answers however I can. Is that alright with you?”

Sketch swallowed. “You mean tell me why I was- reconditioned, sir?” he asked.

“Yes.” General Kenobi nodded, very somber. “But if you would rather not know, I understand, and we can let it go.” His tone said that he would rather not do that, but he just looked calm. He hesitated, then added, “I will say that it might be… wisest to have this conversation. What- happened was quite out of the ordinary for you and I am concerned that someone- Well, I can explain better if you know what happened. Suffice it to say that I’m concerned there’s more involved than the personal decisions of a so-far exemplary officer.”

“Officer?” repeated Sketch, trying to sort all the information out in his head. He deliberately avoided the somewhat glaringly obvious conclusion he could take from that remark and rubbed his hands together a bit in his lap. “I… Well, alright, sir, if you think it would be best.” After all, this couldn’t be against regulations if a ranking member of the Jedi Council was suggesting it, and it was Sketch’s past, after all, so if everyone else here knew it, he might as well too.

“I do.” General Kenobi glanced down, and was quiet for a moment, his fingers idly adjusting and readjusting the sleeves of his dark brown robe. Then he leaned forward a little, meeting Sketch’s eyes, and said, “According to the records on Kamino, you are-” he hesitated again, shook his head, went on, “-Marshal Commander Cody, previously my battalion Commander. A few weeks ago, we were on a rather difficult campaign, in the middle of a march and you- he tried to shoot me. Several times, actually.” General Kenobi’s wry, pained smile was a sharp counterpoint to Sketch’s suddenly-racing heartbeat. “I would have handled the problem internally, if I’d had my way, but there were other battalions involved and they were concerned.”

Sketch twisted his fingers together, a bit, but tried otherwise to stay very, very still. He wished he had his sketchbook - really, he wished he wasn’t here, and he was too anxious to look at either of the officers in the room. “I… read about that,” he tried, shakily, hoping he didn’t sound as guilty as he felt. He wouldn’t have- There’s no way he would have tried to kill a Jedi, especially not someone like General Kenobi, it must not be real. “I’m not sure that’s me, sirs, I- All due respect, I don’t have the skillset and- I would never do something like that, I swear, I’m a good soldier. I got top marks in training and they said it wouldn’t matter, what happened before.”

He didn’t really understand the looks on their faces, when he looked up at them. Commander Waxer, he thought, looked like he was disappointed in him, or like he’d expected a better answer, and General Kenobi was cold and serious, eyes analytical.

Sketch decided he probably should have just stayed with General Fisto, at least there nobody thought he’d tried to  _ murder  _ his  _ General. _

It felt like a long time before Kenobi spoke again, although it probably wasn’t much time at all. “I know you wouldn’t do that,” he said, and he sounded so gentle and understanding that it eased the anxious pressure in Sketch’s chest a little. “That’s what I needed to explain. It was not in character for- for him, so I have some concerns that perhaps someone put him up to it, or that there was some kind of mental influence. I intended to ask you about it on Kamino, they said they brought you there for an exam, but- I didn’t hear about it soon enough, and by the time I went, you were- he was, I’m sorry, I am not sure how to address this.” Kenobi sighed, frustratedly, and waved one hand. “Regardless, by the time I got there, they’d gone ahead with reconditioning. But I’m afraid this is something that could continue to affect my men if I don’t find some answers.”

Sketch swallowed thickly, trying hard to settle his breathing, because they were still looking at him with so much intent and all he wanted was to run back to Mano and Keel. This was a mistake. Whatever Kenobi said, how could Sketch ever look his squadmates in the eyes, knowing they all thought he was a traitor? He looked down again, ashamed of how obviously distressed he must be. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, quietly. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know anything.” He took a deep breath to steady himself, didn’t quite succeed, but it made him sound more firm when he said, “If there’s a way you think I can help, I will, but I don’t remember anything and I’m not supposed to. Maybe the Kaminoans know something I don’t, General, but I’m just- I’m sorry.”

General Kenobi reached over and put his hand on top of Sketch’s folded ones, as if to stop his fidgeting, and Sketch glanced quickly up at him before looking back down. It was, he thought, difficult to be afraid of the General, but he thought he must be very disappointed and somehow that was a different kind of worrisome.

“Sketch,” the General said, softly, slowly, “I understand that you don’t remember what happened. I suppose I’m asking if you would be willing to help us figure it out. Perhaps… If you would let us help you return your memories to-”

“No!” Sketch pulled his hands back, pressed them to his forehead, ashamed at his outburst but more horrified by the suggestion. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I- I’ll help you figure it out, I’ll try, but I- No. They promised me this was a fresh start, that no one would care that I was- a traitor, or defective. I… don’t want to go back to that, sir.”

Commander Waxer stepped forward in front of the desk, leaning forward slightly, an intensity around his eyes. “But don’t you want to know? You can’t just forget everything, you can’t be okay with not being yourself anymore, with- They  _ erased  _ you.” His brows were furrowed, eyes wide, and he’d curled his hands into fists at his sides. “General Kenobi’s offering you a chance at your life back.”

“Waxer,” the General said, gently chiding.

“Sorry, sir.”

Sketch met Commander Waxer’s eyes, swallowing. He wondered, a little, what… Marshall Commander Cody must have been like. What  _ he _ must have been like? And he understood what the Commander was saying – reconditioning was the  _ nightmare, _ even shinies knew that. All they had was  _ themselves, _ so if they lost that… Shouldn’t Sketch want to figure out who he’d been?

The Commander looked so disappointed, and turned away from him to pace around the back of the desk, quiet.

“I’ll help,” Sketch said, tiredly. “If you really think- If you think there’s something to investigate, General, of course I’ll help. But… Reconditioning is irreversible, and I don’t want to cause any more trouble.” He felt that he shouldn’t even be arguing with the General about this point, but they’d asked him, and Sketch was afraid of what would happen if they tried to kriff with his memories again.

He wasn’t this… Commander Cody anymore, and that was it. He was Sketch.

General Kenobi took a deep breath. “Alright. Alright, Co- Sketch. For the time being, I can take you to the barracks and get you settled in. I hope that’s alright.” He sounded very tired.

“Thank you,” Sketch said, slowly. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. “I appreciate it, sir. And- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” General Kenobi said, standing up from his desk. He smiled and folded his arms inside the sleeves of his large brown robes. “I understand how confusing this must be for you, Sketch. If you… still feel that you have no interest in regaining your memories after we have done some research, all you have to do is ask and I’ll transfer you back to General Fisto’s battalion.”

“Alright,” Sketch said, saluting. “I appreciate it, sir.”

The General nodded again, and gestured for Sketch to go ahead of him out of the office. Sketch paced out the door, folding his hands behind him, and heard Commander Waxer follow.

General Kenobi led them to a lift, which they took back down to the main barracks, where the 212th’s troopers were on their feet, huddled in small groups or milling around, and talking in hushed voices that blended together into a loud murmur that filled the room. As the door opened from the lift to admit General Kenobi, every trooper, to a man, turned to look at them, going eerily quiet. Sketch almost couldn’t bring himself to walk out of the lift, but because Commander Waxer was behind him, he did, clutching his helmet under his arm with clumsy fingers. He wanted to put it back on, but everyone was looking at him, and he felt conspicuous enough already.

“Mind yourselves, boys,” Commander Waxer said, loud and firm, and the other  _ vode  _ slowly looked away again and wandered out of their groups and back to bunks, although Sketch knew most of them were still eyeing him as General Kenobi led him to an unoccupied bunk.

“I have a few things to attend to,” General Kenobi said, warmly, turning to face Sketch and folding his hands behind his back, “so I’ll leave you with Waxer for the time being. I don’t expect us to have another deployment for a little while, so you needn’t worry about that just yet.”

“Thank you,” Sketch said, nodding.

The General shifted his weight for a moment, then nodded as if to himself and strode away. Sketch, feeling something almost like  _ dread,  _ turned to Waxer, who looked very tired. Sketch wanted to apologize to him, although for what exactly he wasn’t sure.

“You can feel free to get comfortable,” Waxer sighed, after a moment, gesturing to the bunk which was to be Sketch’s, for now. “If you’d like me to introduce you to anyone, I can do that, but… Might be easier for you to settle in for now. If you need supplies or equipment we can put in for it tomorrow. And…” The Commander sighed again, shook his head. “I’m sorry about what I said, si- Sketch. Bet this shit is hard enough for you, I don’t mean to… tell you what you should do.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sketch said, swallowing. “I didn’t want to be difficult, it’s just… I’ve caused enough trouble, it seems like. If I kriff up again, sir, I don’t think they’ll let me back with a battalion ever again. It’s better if I just… take the chance I’ve got.”

Waxer looked at him for a long moment, a furrow between his brows. Then he nodded, and looked at the floor. “I understand. The General will too, don’t worry.”

Sketch nodded. “Thank you.”

With that, Waxer awkwardly patted his shoulder and walked away, and Sketch slung his pack from his shoulders and sat down on his new bunk, setting the pack by his feet. It was still too quiet in the barracks, and he felt shaky all over, his heart racing so fast he could feel it in his throat. He knew they were all watching him. Why had he even come here? What could he learn that was worth this? He didn’t need to know anything. He didn’t need to know who he was, he didn’t need to know why this had happened to him, and he was stupid to think he could come here and everything would still be okay. He should just request a transfer right now, go back, forget all about this, all about General Kenobi, all about the 212th and their yellow armor and the brothers he dreamed about. It wasn’t worth it.

But when he thought about going back to Mano and Keel and the 406th, and trying to pretend that nothing was wrong with him, that nothing had happened, it felt  _ wrong. _ He knew he’d always wonder what he could’ve learned, whether it would help. He wanted General Kenobi to be right, to tell him that he really  _ hadn’t  _ done anything to deserve this, that nothing was defective about him. Maybe then he’d stop having the dreams. Maybe.


End file.
